First Light

by Sunil Gangopadhyay

  At this time two sailors came up to the deck and assured the master that there was nothing to fear. They had learned the art of steering from the captain and were confident of being able to take the ship, without any hazard, to Barisal. Jyotirindra heard them out. He had no other option but to let them continue. Calling upon the All Merciful Param Brahma to protect them in this fearful hour he said, ‘Let’s go on, then.’

  The steamer chugged on, cleaving the breast of the Ganga and darkening the sky with the smoke from her chimneys. The afternoon passed peacefully but towards evening a clamour arose of many frightened voices crying out together, ‘Stop? Stop.’ Turn it! Turn it quick!’ Jyotirindra and the others ran out to the deck to see a vast iron buoy rushing towards them from the middle of the river. What it meant, of course, was that the ship was racing madly towards it. The sailors tried their best but could not change direction and, even as everyone looked on fearfully, the catastrophe occurred. The ship crashed into the buoy and nearly keeled over. The impact was so strong that Akshay Babu, though clutching the rail with all his might, was thrown to the ground. The children would have fallen too if they hadn’t been holding on so tightly to Robi.

  Pale faces looked on one another anticipating a watery grave. The vessel was rocking violently and things were crashing to the ground—crockery, cooking vessels and furniture. However, the worst was averted. The ship recovered her balance after a while and Jyotirindranath, who had rushed down to the engine room, was informed that the damage was less than they had expected. The vessel was intact. There were minor breakages in some parts of the machinery which could be repaired. It would be best to cast anchor here and let her rest for the night. Then, tomorrow, they could repair the ship and set sail once more.

  Their worst fears over, the party cheered up. Sitting together on the deck they fell to hungrily on the hot luchis, mohanbhog and kheer that were brought up by the servants. Sipping tea out of elegant porcelain cups they looked out on the river which was so wide here that her banks were barely visible. Gradually, before their admiring eyes the sun, huge and soft with evening, sank in a haze of rose and gold.

  ‘Robi,’ Gyanadanandini called out to her brother-in-law. ‘You seem rapt in your own thoughts. Won’t you share them with us?’

  Robi stood a little apart, his hand on the rail. He remembered an evening just like this one. He had been sitting with Natun Bouthan on the steps that went down to the river from the garden of Moran’s villa. Her eyes on the setting sun, Natun Bouthan had said softly, ‘Sing a song Bhanu! A new one.’ And Robi had instantly composed and sung Marana ré tunhu mama Shyam samaan. He hummed the sweet, melancholy strains below his breath and turned to Gyanadanandini.

  The sailors kept their word. Repairing the ship the next morning they set sail and reached Barisal by way of Khulna. As the steamer made her way into the harbour a strange sight met their eyes. There were crowds everywhere cheering and waving out to them. People from all walks of life—mukhtiars and lawyers, hakims and zamindars, teachers and students, shopkeepers and customers—pushed and shoved in order to get a better view. The passengers on board were puzzled. What were the people so excited about? Surely they had seen vessels like the Sarojini before. The ships of the Flotilla Company had been ferrying passengers between Barisal and Calcutta for quite some time now. Then, suddenly, the truth dawned on them. Sarojini was the first native ship to sail on the Ganga. It was a proud moment for all Indians! The crowds at the harbour were expressing their joy and triumph. Gyanadanandini turned a bright, laughing face towards her brother-in-law and said, ‘Your dream has been fulfilled Natun.’ Jyotirindra was so overcome with emotion that tears rose to his eyes. In an effort to hide them he lowered his head and started polishing his pince nez.

  The ship belonging to the Flotilla Company was docked a little distance away and people were being carried to it in little boats. Suddenly, to Jyotirindra’s surprise, a young man ran up to them with folded hands crying out, ‘Listen brothers! Heed me for a moment. Don’t travel in the foreigner’s ship. You are Bengalis. There’s a Bengali ship waiting to take you to Calcutta. Board it. Don’t use your money to enrich the foreigners. They think nothing of us. They hate and despise us and call us bloody natives. The Thakurs of Jorasanko have brought their ship Sarojini to Barisal. Will you not give them a chance to serve you?’

  The passengers looked at one another doubtfully. The British ship had been tried and tested. Besides, the British could be relied upon to conduct whatever business they undertook with consummate skill. Who knew what this native ship was like? What if it capsized in midstream? Some pretended they hadn’t heard and stepped quickly into the waiting boats. But, by now, others had come forward. They begged and pleaded—even pulled some passengers by the hand. A boy of about twelve stood in waist deep water and cried, ‘Babu go! The saheb’s ship is unsteady. It sways this way and that. Our ship is as firm as a rock. It cares little for storms and winds. O Karta! Don’t step into the saheb’s ship. You’ll fall into the river and drown.’

  The party on the deck burst out laughing as did many others who stood nearby. But not Robi. The impassioned plea of the little Muslim boy in his torn lungi set him thinking. The possibility of competition with the sahebs had penetrated into the consciousness of the common folk. When did this happen and how? After the dismal outcome of the Sepoy Mutiny the natives had come to think of the whites as invincible; as born to rule the dark-skinned natives. When did that mindset begin to change? From where did the poor peasant boy get the courage to speak as he did?

  Two Englishmen standing on the deck of the ship belonging to the Flotilla Company watched the scene with interest. One was an old India hand; the other had recently arrived from England. ‘What do you think?’ the latter asked puffing at his pipe, ‘Can Bengalis compete with us in business?’

  ‘Pooh!’ the other replied dismissively. ‘Natives have neither the brains nor the patience for business. We have nothing to fear from them. But they must be punished for trying to take our passengers away. We should inform the police.’

  ‘No, no. There’s no need to call in the police just yet. That will only excite them further. It might even lead to a mass boycott of our ship. Let’s wait and watch.’

  The sahebs looked on as half the passengers in the quay side climbed into Sarojini and the ship sailed triumphantly towards Khulna. It was a great victory for Jyotirindranath. Two days later he was felicitated at an impressive function attended by all the important residents of Barisal, both Hindu and Muslim.

  The French captain returned a couple of days later and the ship went up and down the Ganga as scheduled. Within a few months Jyotrindranath acquired two more ships—Banga Lakshmi and Swadeshi. The common folk lined up on both sides of the river waving and cheering every time one of these ships passed. Flushed with his success, Jyotirindranath started working harder than ever.

  After his return from that first trip Robi did not accompany Gyanadanandini to her house but took up residence, once more, in Jorasanko. Back in his own wing he found masons and carpenters at work renovating the premises. It was difficult to concentrate with workmen all over the place hammering at doors and walls. But Robi had tremendous will power. Sitting at a table, in the midst of all the activity and commotion, he pored over his proofs. And at night he slept on a mat spread out on the floor.

  Prakritir Pratishodh had come out exactly seven days after Kadambari’s death. For you the dedication had run. It was followed by the play Nalini. And now Robi had corrected the proofs of Shaishab Sangeet, a volume of poems written during his boyhood, and was wondering whom to dedicate it to. Could books be dedicated to the dead? Upon an impulse he picked up a pen and wrote, I used to sit by your side and write my poems. You were the first to read them. You will still be the first for my poems will reach you wherever you are …’

  Suddenly Robi pushed his papers away and rose to his feet. Then, running up the steps to the second floor, he came and stood outside the apartment that had been shar
ed by Jyotirindranath and Kadambari. It was kept locked these days. Jyotirindranath hadn’t stepped into it even once after Kadambari’s death. Robi lowered the latch and pushed the door open. The room looked just the same as always. The bed was made up, and on a small table by its side, a copy of Robi’s Bou Thakurani’r Haat lay open. But Kadambari had kept her rooms spotlessly clean, and now dust lay thick on everything. It was clear that no one had entered these rooms after her death.

  Robi walked up to the window at which Kadambari was in the habit of sitting, looking out at the bakul tree. He recalled the evening when he had come up here with his Chhabi o Gaan in his hands. It was the same hour of dusk. The lamp was unlit and the room was full of shadows. ‘Natun Bouthan,’ Robi called softly, then again, ‘Natun Bouthan.’ One part of his consciousness told him that she would not answer. She was dead. He had seen her being burned to ashes with his own eyes. But something, someone, deep down within him, told him that she was there, close beside him, guarding him, guiding him as only she could.

  Robi wandered from room to room then came out to the veranda. Here were rows of pots with plants that she had tended with her own hands. Even in this fading light he saw that some of them were dead, others wilting and dying. Robi walked into her bathing room, and found a tub full of water. It had obviously stood stagnant for days and had specks of dust floating on its surface. It was probably the water she had bathed in last. Dragging the heavy tub to the veranda he splashed the water on the plants stroking the leaves lovingly. And, in doing so, he felt Kadambari’s touch.

  Going back to her bedroom he stretched himself out on her bed and murmured, ‘Natun Bouthan.’ Suddenly he heard footsteps and a tinkle of jewels and started up in surprise. Someone stood at the door—a figure bundled up clumsily in a heavy brocade sari the edge of which fell over her face. It was Mrinalini.

  ‘You?’ Robi cried out amazed. ‘How are you here?’

  ‘I came away with Bolu dada. I don’t want to stay there any more.’

  ‘But why? They all love you. Besides your school—’

  ‘I don’t want to go to school.’

  Robi smiled. He, too, had hated school as a child and had run away whenever he could. He was hardly the right person to lecture her on the advantages of a formal education. Nevertheless he said with an effort, ‘Bibi and Sarala go to school —’

  ‘The school is closed.’ Mrinalini said desperately.

  ‘How can that be? The vacations are over.’

  ‘But today is a chhuti. A chhuti. Don’t you believe me? It is. It is.’ Mrinalini burst into tears.

  ‘Chhuti? How sweet that word sounds when you say it. I have a new name for you. From today I shall call you Chhuti.’

  Robi walked up to his child bride and placed a hand on her head.

  Chapter XXVII

  Shashibhushan had organized a band party from Mechhuabazar for the royal welcome. And now its pipes and kettle drums burst into a lively rendition of ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ as the equipage carrying the king and queen rolled up to the gate. Shashibhushan hastened to open the door, then called out in a sonorous voice, ‘Swagatam, Maharaj. Swagatam.’ Behind him the servants stood in two neat rows on either side of the path made bright and gay with red gravel, garlands and potted plants.

  Birchandra stepped out of the carriage looking as unlike a Maharaja as anyone could imagine. He wore a fatua over a dhuti and a muga shawl was flung carelessly over one shoulder. He looked weary and travel stained. Passing a hand over his rumpled hair he looked around at the house and grounds and nodded his head in approval. Then, turning to the bundle of rich brocade and jewels that was his queen, he put out his hand and said, ‘Come.’

  The royal pair walked up the path to the house followed by Radharaman Ghosh and Kumar Samarendra. Shashibhushan led them to a room on the ground floor, arranged with sofas and chairs, so that they could rest a while before being taken to their apartments. As soon as she had set foot in the room Monomohini pushed the veil away from her face and announced in her clear, strident tones, ‘I want some water. I’m thirsty.’ A servant hurried to a table on which a silver pitcher of water and crystal glasses stood arranged on a tray. Monomohini drank two glasses in quick succession and asked, ‘Which one is my room?’ Then, on being led to it, she ran up the stairs as playfully as a fawn her brocade aanchal trailing after her.

  The Maharaja watched her go, his lips curled in amusement. Then he turned to Shashibhushan with an enquiring glance. Shashibhushan was nonplussed. The Maharaja was obviously asking for something. What could it be? Radharaman put an end to his dilemma by booming out the question, ‘Ki hé Shashi! Where’s the hookah baradar?’ Shashibhushan turned red with embarrassment. How could he have forgotten? He ran out of the room to make the arrangements without delay. But the Maharaja could not enjoy his smoke. After taking a few puffs he clutched his abdomen, his face twisting with pain. ‘What is it Maharaj?’ Radharaman asked anxiously.

  ‘I don’t feel too well. I get these sudden cramps in my stomach. The quacks in Tripura stuffed me up with pills and mixtures but couldn’t cure me. I hear Calcutta doctors are wizards. You’d better get one of them to see me Shashi.’

  ‘Would you like to try homeopathy Maharaj?’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘It’s a new branch of medicine and yields very good results. I can send for Dr Mahendralal Sarkar. He is considered a dhanwantari.’

  ‘That would be best,’ Radharaman Ghosh said. ‘Dr Mahendralal Sarkar is very famous. Besides he practises both allopathy and homeopathy.’ Birchandra nodded in approval. ‘And send for that boy from the Thakur family,’ he said, ‘The young poet. What’s his name? Ah, yes. Rabindra Babu. The doctor’s pills may have no effect, but Rabindra Babu’s poetry is bound to cure me.’ He rose and commenced walking towards his private mahal. At the foot of the stairs he paused and said over his shoulder, ‘And don’t make my illness an excuse to feed me green bananas and singi fish broth. I can’t stomach the stuff. Send a servant to Bagbazaar Ghat for a basket of freshly caught ilish. I fancy thick wedges of ilish fried crisp in its own fat. And hot rosogollas from Nabin Moira’s shop.’

  Shashibhushan went to Dr Mahendralal Sarkar’s chambers that very evening to find it overflowing with patients. But the doctor was not to be seen. Mahendralal’s interest in pure science was turning into an obsession. He had founded the Vigyan Parishad for research and spent a good deal of his time in organizing its activities. In consequence his own work was neglected. But, despite the fact that his patients often had to go back untreated, his clinic was always full.

  Shashibhushan had to wait forty minutes before Dr Sarkar put in an appearance, then another twenty minutes while he went from patient to patient barking at one, soothing another. At last Shashibhushan’s turn came. He had hoped for a smile of recognition but was disappointed. ‘Don’t beat about the bush,’ he was told curtly. ‘I don’t have time to waste. Just tell me the symptoms.’

  ‘I haven’t come for myself,’ Shashibhushan said humbly. ‘I’m here on behalf of another. My name is Shashibhushan Singha and—’

  ‘Shashibhushan Singha! Ah yes. I remember now. You came from Tripura. You had a mental problem did you not? What’s the matter? Has there been a recurrence?’

  ‘No. Thanks to your treatment I’m fully recovered.’

  ‘Is that so? Sit down my boy. I was thinking of you only the other day. In fact, it’s the strangest coincidence. Do you know the playwright Girish Ghosh?’

  ‘No. But I’ve heard of him. He’s very famous.’

  ‘He’ll be here at seven thirty. I’ll introduce him to you. Well, as you probably know, Girish was an atheist for a good part of his life. He had read Bentham, Mill and Kant and was influenced by their philosophies. Then, suddenly, he turned religious—a Kali worshipper. Do you know how? It’s quite a story. Listen carefully. Once Girish fell ill; very ill. The doctors did their best but couldn’t help him. Driven desperate with pain he went to the temple at Tara
keswar and prostrated himself at the feet of the idol. Such things happen. People turn to blind faith when logic and reason can’t support them. He returned—his suffering unabated. But that same night he dreamt that his mother stood by his bedside. Of course he denies that it was a dream. He says he heard his mother’s voice; felt her touch. She told him what medicine to take. And he obeyed her and was cured. Rather like your experience is it not?’ Shashibhushan nodded his assent. ‘Do we take it then,’ the doctor continued, ‘that the dead come back to life? That mothers become doctors after death?’

  ‘No,’ Shashibhushan murmured solemnly. ‘The dead cannot return to life. I know, now, that what I saw was a dream. My brain was fevered and my body weak. In that state the dream acquired a special potency. It seemed real.’

  ‘Auto suggestion,’ the doctor wagged his large head. ‘You created her out of your own imagination to fulfil an overwhelming need. I didn’t tell you at the time but—’ Suddenly he gave a great bark of laughter, ‘Mothers may become doctors after death but they don’t attend their sons more than once. Girish is ill again but now he’s under my treatment—not his mother’s.’

  A few minutes later the curtain was pushed aside and Girish Ghosh entered the room. His eyes were red, his feet unsteady and his breath reeked of alcohol. But he came in with the air of a hero making a stage entrance. ‘O hé Daktar,’ he called in the deep, wonderful voice that had held audiences in thrall for over two decades. ‘Your medicine isn’t working. I had a terrible attack last night. I nearly fainted with the pain.’

  ‘What can you expect with all the brandy you pour into your stomach? What power do my poor little homeopathic doses have against that noxious stuff? I’ve told you again and again—’

  ‘I drink a little when the pain is bad. It’s the only way I can bear it.’